


In a most delightful way

by Ibbyliv



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Confessions, Dogs, Enjolras is cranky and adorable, Fluff, M/M, Oblivious, Puppies, Sickfic, Sounds pretty in character right?, This will make your teeth rot, Tumblr Prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-11 22:40:24
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3335441
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ibbyliv/pseuds/Ibbyliv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Hey, I did what you asked me. I came in the snow and walked your dog, okay?” Grantaire stands at the door and sighs. “Now why don’t you be a big boy and admit you’re sick?”<br/>“How do you define this?” Enjolras huffs, hopelessly peering through his notes without raising his head to face him. “It’s just a role, a profile assigned to people to exclude them…”<br/>“Let me guess,” Grantaire flares his arms dramatically. “Sickness is a social construct?”<br/>“Precisely!” Enjolras clears his throat. “Tell me, what distinguishes a sick man from a healthy…” his phrase is cut up by a wrecking cough.<br/>“Their lungs, Enjolras,” Grantaire sighs gravely, rubbing his temple with his fingers, “their lungs do.”<br/>“So,” Enjolras tries to catch his breath, “in that way you as a smoker should be categorized by your lungs… alienated by society and excluded as… as an outcast, right?”<br/>“I think that society should acknowledge the fuck up that I am and leave me in my misery.” He walks up to him, closely assessing his appearance with his arms crossed in front of his chest. “I also think that Combeferre shouldn’t let you anywhere near his Foucault again.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	In a most delightful way

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ereini0n](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ereini0n/gifts).



> Sooo I know I've got two WiPs but I finished exams and I was excite so I asked for prompts. I intend to fill most of them (so anons who sent me thank you so much for your patience) and I started with some fluff. [Ereini0n](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Ereini0n/works) asked:  
> Enjolras is sick (flu or something) and Grantaire come to live with him for a while to look after his dog (take it for walks and stuff).  
> I loved it and decided to work on it, but it turned into a full on sickfic so expect NOTHING serious and well thought from this. I'm just out of exams, I'll be scarred for quite a while. Hadn't written one of those in ages! Hope you don't die from the sap.  
> Theroigne is a baby German shepherd because Naga is a baby German shepherd and I'm sure starberry-cupcake would love Grantaire to come walk her dog with her

He can’t recall enough occasions of his day beginning with a phone call, simply because most days, he’s either so shitfaced, or so exhausted with life, that canons wouldn’t be enough to wake him before noon. Brought to this day, he can’t figure out what twisted Fate or horny Muse had him wake up just on time and perfectly sober, at that, in order to hear the buzzing of his phone and see Enjolras’, of all names, on the screen. Hell, he still can’t tell if he was too drunk when they first exchanged phones or if he just had the activist leader’s number – and not vice versa – after excessive amounts of embarrassingly unsubtle stalking. Turns out it’s probably the first one and Grantaire couldn’t be more thankful.

To say that Grantaire panics would be a grave understatement. To say that Grantaire changes several colors, throws his immortal Nokia on the wall and shoves a paintbrush in his eye would admittedly be closer to reality. Enjolras calling _him_ instead of a dozen other choices of friends much more willing to chitchat about taxes and police brutality on a fine winter morning can only mean several things: a) Enjolras has found his other half (is it Feuilly? He's sure it's Feuilly. If it’s the old, perfect bastard, Grantaire will have to drown himself in his paint water) and is looking for the equivalent of Mme Puddifoot’s in Paris to seduce his lover with red roses and passionate tango music, and of course Grantaire is the only one who knows many a ridiculous places in the city b) Enjolras felt the urge to call him and let him know how much he despised him and wanted him in a different continent, or c) Enjolras has been abducted by alien goats who shall liberate him only if Grantaire pays them with his booze, in which case Grantaire will be so fucking done.

Of course at this train of thought, there is no place for the realization that Enjolras has been arranging meetings in the café during the snowstorm for the past couple of days, much to everyone’s dismay, with Combeferre and Joly chasing him everywhere and bundling him up with scarves and layers as if something really horrible only they know may happen if they don’t, or of the remembrance of Enjolras’ kitten sneezes that caused Grantaire’s heart to inflate in unhealthy sizes. The most terrifying assumption, induced by his congested voice, is that Enjolras has been turned into a fearsome frog and needs to be kissed by a drunk cynic he despises in order to impersonate liberty again, and that’s more than Grantaire is willing to take.

“Apollo?” he asks breathlessly, wiping cobalt blue off his face.

“Grantaire,” Enjolras asks in the most dignified croak a congested frog can produce, “Will you do me a favor?”

“Anything,” Grantaire hears himself declaring, utterly astonished by the proposition, “I’ll paint your Converse”.

“I need your help…” there is a pregnant pause. He can hear Enjolras’ breath heavy on the phone. Did Enjolras always _breathe_ so much? “It’s snowing outside.”

Grantaire leans forward, phone still on his ear, to have a look outside the window. Too bad he is a creature of the night and his apartment is always darker than his soul, shutters eternally closed. Still, his balls have frozen over during the night and he’s wearing all the pieces of obscenely colored wool Jehan has knitted him over the years, so he supposes Enjolras is correct. “Astute observation,” he mutters, balancing the phone between his shoulder and his ear as he tries to wipe the Pollock mess in his shithole of a room with a pile of old newspapers, shut upon with the horrors of humanity. “So. Is that what am I to help you with? The weather report? Should I dance in the streets to summon the sun? Because you obviously have a stronger ambition in that direction. The whole sun department, I mean…”

“Grantaire!” right. He’s rambling again, isn’t he? “It’s snowing and… and Théroigne wants to take a walk in the snow, but I’ve got that essay to finish, and turn in the application about the demonstration permit and –” he’s cut by a cough or two. Something jolts funnily inside Grantaire. “I was wondering if you could come over… take Théroigne do her pee-pee. Of course –” he hurries to add, “I don’t want to have you out in the snow if you don’t feel like it… I was just wondering… only if you don’t mind… and if you’ve got nothing better to do… I assumed you’d be free. It would be of tremendous help, and Théroigne really likes you…”

 _Of course,_ he muses, _painting dark surrealistic shit in the first PM hours_ _while trying not to poison yourself in either whatever amounts of piss-wine is left from your last gathering with Joly and Bossuet or paint water, certainly has no importance compared to a morning full of saving the world, and shit._ He obviously isn’t going to comment on the entire sentence he was just graced with sharing with a revolutionary leader, about a certain lady going to “pee-pee in the snow”, or to the fact that, Enjolras dog is named after Théroigne de Mericourt who certainly was a very kickass lady, or even to the fact that _holy shit Enjolras has had a dog for the past couple of months how is this still happening when is he going to get familiar with the fact that the personification of revolutionary fervor is cuddling all evening with a furry ball of excitement looking fatally adorable, the fact that he’s getting his Marxist essays pissed on by a puppy, and the fact that he’s cooing and possibly baby-talking in between petitioning and protesting, and Grantaire isn’t feeling jealous of a baby German shepherd, he most definitely is not._

“Sure – uh, sure thing,” he clears his throat after he finds his ability to react, throwing himself in the least stinky pair of jeans and grabbing his coat and boots somewhere along the way, “I can distract your dog till she gets bored enough to eat me alive, I guess.”

Enjolras coughs again. Grantaire considers it his way to say thank you.

“Uh, Apollo?” he stops at the door.

“Y… – sniffle – yes?”

“You sure you’re alright?”

Another cough. “Uh, sure thing. Just… need some help with Théry.”

And Grantaire storms out of his apartment and into the snow, because, _the hell he does._

*

It is still snowing like fuck, apparently, not enough to prevent people half less lazy than Grantaire from continuing their daily activities, but enough to considerably piss them off. He doubts there is one romantic soul left in this universe – apart from Prouvaire, but Grantaire sometimes doubts he’s not a soulless demon haunting people’s gardens and possessing their begonias – that derives any kind of sick poetic pleasure from the fifth day of continuous snowflakes blocking their eyesight and threatening fingers and toes to fall off. Grantaire is positively certain that only dogs have fun today, while their owners cry softly in some corner until their beloved furry partner shits next to every terrified snowman.

There’s some kind of pathetic solidarity that Grantaire likes about snowy days, though. Everyone hates walking in the pissy metro, full of filthy stale breaths, squeaky boots, and the risk of tripping over muddy ruddy wet floors. Everyone hates even more waiting for the bus, looking like baffled penguins with their hoodies drawn down their eyes, certainly unable to maintain the dignified businessman status with your teeth chattering in the rhythm of some hot Nicki Minaj tune. You meet the others' eye and they know exactly, _avec un hausse des epaules,_ what you're going through, and this is kinda nice, in a sadomasochistic kind of way. Still, and Grantaire could never have thought he’d say that, no moment in his life has been fuller of relief than when he rings the bell of Enjolras’ building.

He doesn’t exactly know what to expect from a way full of absurdities such as Enjolras asking _his_ help to walk the dog, but maybe a life-size bundle wearing fluffy bunny slippers and literally radiating caffeinated odors from every cell of its being isn’t in the top of his list. It takes a lot of conviction to accept that this is the sun deity who’s inspired faith amongst the most bitter (sauf _lui-même_ ), that this is the Enjolras they know and worship (correction: they know and _he_ worships in the least healthy way possible), reduced to a shivering mess of blankets and wool, dirty golden hair half-frizzy, bunned up on the top of his head with a couple of pencils, half sweaty and plastered on his flustered face.

“Hey, you look like shit,” Grantaire hums matter of factly, and it’s quite obscene to hear it, really.

Enjolras looks offended but is saved from the necessity of replying, because a furry storm that smells like dog jumps on Grantaire and almost throws him over, furiously licking his face. Turns out it is, after all, a dog, and Enjolras might, in fact, die today. To feel on the safe side, Grantaire decides to ask him even though the other man is too busy coughing up a lung.

“Will you die today, Apollo? You have, what, TB?”

“Very funny,” Enjolras tries to stifle the last of his coughs in the blanket he has wrapped pathetically around his shoulders, his voice barely audible. “Thank you for coming,” he looks quite eager to step inside and make a vain attempt to clear his throat. “Théroigne would really appreciate a walk, and I’m stormed up under…” more cough.

“Your blanket, apparently,” Grantaire finishes his sentence, taking off his coat and shaking the snow of him in a way that has the purpose to show the dog she’s not the coolest one in the house. “So,” he sighs, bending forward to scratch the dog behind her ears in hope that her butt won’t be dislocated from the intense wagging of her tail. “You were planning to inform me on the tiny insignificant detail about your health when, exactly?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about?” Enjolras whispers.

“Why are we whispering?” Grantaire whispers back.

“It’s…” Enjolras attempts to clear his throat and heighten the volume of his voice, which comes out as a pathetic croak. “Got that pissy cop neighbor.”

At that very moment Théroigne starts barking excitedly around – and atop of – the furniture.  “Does she have to whisper too?” Grantaire asks, amused.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Enjolras huffs, “she’s just a dog.”

Grantaire raises a teasing eyebrow. “She’s also my date for tonight. Milady,” he gets on one knee. “Would you be so kind as to give me your paw?” Théroigne is kind enough to lick his hand.  “You ready to go?”

Enjolras prepares her for her walk, dopey-eyed and shivering. “I really _achew_ -ciate your help…”

“You’re really fucking sick, do you know that?” Grantaire insists concernedly.

“I’m not sick,” Enjolras croaks.

“Of course you aren’t. Healthy people hack half a lung every other minute _all the time_!”

“It’s my allergies.”

“It’s February.”

“I’m _fine_ , okay?” Enjolras growls in a strangled voice. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got some work to finish. Watch what she gets in her mouth.”

“Nothing but snow, today, hopefully,” Grantaire sighs, turning around before he’s dragged out of the dog by his bouncy furry friend-and-rival-for Enjolras’ heart. “Should I suggest you get some rest?”

“I can’t afford resting,” Enjolras scowls, wiping his nose with his woolen sleeve. “I need to finish this.”

“You sure do,” Grantaire nods. He hears Enjolras’ bunny slippers following him to the door.

“Combeferre mustn’t know,” he threatens all but murderously.

Grantaire turns around. “Oh? And why mustn’t Combeferre know that you’re _not_ sick?”

Enjolras suddenly looks tired enough to collapse. “He’s visiting his family.”

“Courfeyrac?”

“Has classes. Worry them unnecessarily and I’ll hunt you down.” He lowers himself dog-height with pouvoir remarkable for his condition, to rub her head. “Now go, be careful, you don’t have to be away for long, just make sure…”

“She pisses on the snow, and not on Hegel’s phenomenology, I know.”

There’s something about leaving Enjolras alone that doesn’t feel entirely too comforting. His usually apathetic heart is now racing with impatience. He wants to be back soon and keep an eye on him, even though he’s in no way invited to spend time in the other’s apartment, yet at the same time walking the dog is admittedly an interesting occupation, and would be even better if they didn’t both run the risk of slipping on fucking ice.

Turns out that smelling other dogs’ shit and chasing birds is extremely serious business for a revolutionary lady such as Théroigne. They walk up to the park, half of it covered in fresh, white snow, the other half in muddy grass where she adores jumping and running and sniffing everything.  She’s a bloody charmer, like her owner, only she lacks the terrible part. She’s adorable and Grantaire falls in love all over again, even though he’d never thought he would.

It’s a marvel beyond anyone’s expectations. Enjolras had a fish once, and Bahorel still cries when they tell the story, so that everyone feared greatly when an astounded Cosette declared she’d found a home for the scared little baby that had arrived to the pet shelter a couple of months ago. Everyone had visited cautiously, to give advice and bring food and dog toys. Joly even considered admitting Enjolras in hospital to make sure he hadn’t earned a concussion in their last protest. Enjolras was cynophobic: apparently adopting a dog would help him overcome his irrational fear, which it did, and now Enjolras has become a creepy dog person, signed up in all dog magazines and filling them up with all the latest training tutorials. Théroigne with her revolutionary name had become the mascot of Les Amis de l’ABC, and everyone was extremely proud of their chief.

He can’t measure his love for Enjolras in words, or in colors, or swallow it down and stomach it. It’s painful and hopeless, every second of it, every glance they exchange over the crowded room, every time they argue and their shoulders accidentally brush together, it’s the kind you can’t learn to live with, it’s asphyxiating and he’d give up his liver for it to ever get better. Not that it’s unlikely to happen anyway.

He wonders how it is to live with him, to wake up with the sun on his lap, tangled between the sheets, how his hair would look in the morning, bathed in light and sleep, how he sits on his desk and the sounds he makes when he reads. How he looks absorbed in his work, in what patterns he walks in the living room when he talks on the phone and what he does when he’s out of food (if he ever remembers to eat). He rubs his boot against the dog’s side. “How is life with him?” he asks quietly, ignoring the passers-by who see him talking to a snow licking puppy. Théroigne  brings a paw over her shoulder to scratch her ear. “That good, uh?” Grantaire asks bitterly. “So I imagined.” Just then, his phone buzzes. A text message from Combeferre comes to add to today’s suprises.

**[From: Musketeer no. 2] How bad is it?**

He quirks a confused eyebrow.

**[From: You] how bad is wht?**

**[From: Musketeer no. 2] Enjolras texted me he asked you to walk the dog.**

**[From: Musketeer no. 2] Which means he asked for help.**

**[From: Musketeer no. 2] By which I conclude he is still feeling under the weather.**

**[From: You] he says hes ok**

**[From: Musketeer no. 2] Of course he does.**

**[From: Musketeer no. 2] He searches excuses to not pick up his phone when he’s sick. Doesn’t want me to hear how he sounds.**

**[From: You] he sounds like a stoned saruman**

**[From: Musketeer no. 2] So I imagined. Other symptoms?**

**[From: You] cough, runny nose**

**[From: You] idk if fever**

**[From: Musketeer no. 2] Should I come home?**

**[From: You] nah, i got his ass**

Grantaire groans.

**[From: You] i mean, no worries, ill give him fluids and shit and make sure he doesn’t work**

**[From: Musketeer no. 2] Are you quite sure? You going to be ok?**

**[From: You] yeah, it’s cool**

**[From: Musketeer no. 2] Make sure he takes his temperature and keep me updated.**

**[From: You] easy to say**

**[From: Musketeer no. 2] Thank you R, I owe you.**

**[From: Musketeer no. 2] Also R**

**[From: Musketeer no. 2] Don’t mention sickness in front of him.**

Grantaire stares blankly at his phone.

**[From: You] xcuse me?**

**[From: Musketeer no. 2] He thinks it’s a social construct.**

Grantaire most definitely didn’t sign up for this shit.

*

Théroigne decides to give a good run on their way back home, which has Grantaire all wet and panting on the doorway. It takes a while for Enjolras to open the door. The blanket has disappeared. He’s in a pair of turquoise and silver ski sweats (undoubtedly Courfeyrac’s) and a ratty Yoda t-shirt, looking all flushed up and sweaty. He and gives his furry friend the required attention before stumbling his way inside. Grantaire has no intention of leaving him do that.

“Felt hot all of a sudden?” he follows him to his desk which is covered in books, notes, and half empty coffee mugs.

“I’m just…” Enjolras huffs hoarsely, “tired, you know? From studying, and all that.” A pencil is slipping dangerously between a mass of blond locks. Enjolras curls up on his chair and blows his red nose, adding another used tissue to the growing pile.

“Hey, I did what you asked me to. I came here in the snow and walked your dog, okay?” Grantaire stands at the door and sighs. “Now why don’t _you_ be a big boy and admit you’re sick?”

“How do you define this?” Enjolras huffs, hopelessly peering through his notes without raising his head to face him. “It’s just a role, a profile assigned to people to exclude them…”

“Let me guess,” Grantaire flares his arms dramatically. “Sickness is a social construct?”

“Precisely!” Enjolras clears his throat. “Tell me, what distinguishes a sick man from a healthy…” his phrase is cut up by a wrecking cough.

“Their lungs, Enjolras,” Grantaire sighs gravely, rubbing his temple with his fingers, “their _lungs_ do.”

“So,” Enjolras tries to catch his breath, “in that way _you_ as a smoker should be categorized by your lungs… alienated by society and excluded as… as an outcast, right?”

“I think that society should acknowledge the fuck up that I am and leave me in my misery.” He walks up to him, closely assessing his appearance with his arms crossed in front of his chest. “I also think that Combeferre shouldn’t let you anywhere near his Foucault again.”

Enjolras opens his mouth to protest but he’s interrupted by another coughing fit that leaves him shaking. Before realizing what he’s doing, Grantaire has thrown his arms around him, supporting his weight rubbing his back that feels hot over the sticky t-shirt. The fact that Enjolras leans in in exhaustion and doesn’t withdraw scares Grantaire more than the warmth he’s radiating.

“Hey,” he murmurs, his voice softened, immediately regretting the freedom he took to get all touchy-feely and no, he must be responsible and not swoon _right on the spot_. “You have a fever. May I?”

“Uh, okay,” Enjolras resigns slightly, letting him press the back of his hand on his burning forehead. Grantaire’s insides clench uncomfortably. “ _Merde_ …” he hisses, stepping back and walking to the window to shut it. “The party’s over. Bed. _Now._ ”

“Leave me alone, I’m fine, just tired…” Enjolras tries to protest again, but apparently he looks way too feverish and disoriented to be stubborn, so he stands up and dizzily stumbles through the corridor.

“Thermometer!” Grantaire shouts from the bathroom, browsing through the shelves. 

“Says who?”

“Says me!”

“Second cupboard on the right,” Enjolras croaks reluctantly, his voice coming muffled from his room.

When Grantaire shakes the thermometer and returns to Enjolras’ room, he finds the dog curled up on his feet. “I didn’t know you let her on your bed.”

“Sometimes…” Enjolras mutters, looking miserable under the covers, “she gets scared at night.”

Grantaire’s smile is almost tender, at least until he gives a look at the thermometer. “How are you feeling?” he asks, brushing a stray lock away from his forehead only to pull back somewhat frozen after that. “Be honest.”

“Head feels funny,” Enjolras whimpers – _whimpers_ of all things.

“Sore throat?”

He groans and hides his face under golden curls and pillows, like a princess – scratch that, like a gender neutral, democratically elected royalty – in distress. “It’s nothing, okay? I’m fine!”

“You’re a train wreck…”

“It will go away…”

“It will go away _mon cul_.” Grantaire stands up and Théroigne raises her head, following him first metaphorically and then literally, jumping off the bed and heading to the kitchen.

“What do they give sick people?”

“Not cognac,” Enjolras sniffles grumpily.

“Ha ha, you _are_ funny. Do you want, I don’t know, soup?”

“If you make me eat soup I’ll puke all over you,” a muffled threat.

“Oh, how scary, whatever shall I do,” Grantaire calls sarcastically. “Tea?”

“Don’t want.” Grantaire peers his head through the bedroom door as Théroigne jumps on the bed again and tries to catch her tail until she falls on the mattress, curling around herself. “I’ll just… get some sleep”

Grantaire furrows his eyebrows disbelievingly. “Good idea,” he says at last. “Do so. I’ll, uh, be in the kitchen. Théry!” he pats his thigh, feeling ridiculous. “Food!”

The dog follows him with her tongue hanging off her mouth, wagging her tail. Before shutting the door behind them, Grantaire can only catch a glimpse of blond hair peeking from a colorful bundle, and his heart might have melted on his way to the kitchen.

The whole thing is more uncomfortable than he could have imagined, maybe because he isn’t used to a helpless, grumpy Enjolras in ski sweats and fluffy slippers. At least he isn’t in his room, creepily staring him as he sleeps, not that he’d ever object to that if he weren’t ever to be caught.

Grantaire wants to slam his head on the kitchen table.

He shuts the door to avoid waking him up, putting Théroigne her food and peering inside cupboards and shelves for something audible. Realization of the day: wrong thing to search for in Enjolras’ apartment.

He manages to boil two and a half sad carrots, a potato some unidentified green stuff that he puts in the soup. He takes up doodling on napkins while the dog continues chasing her tail in the kitchen, avoiding any attempts for conversation, until she’s so bored that he needs to distract her with empty water bottles and eventually, his boot, with the chewing of which she looks satisfied enough.

*

He wakes up sometime in late afternoon, after the dog has taken a nap and chewed several shoes, and he has finished two books and ordered kebab. Enjolras’ consciousness is announced with the failed attempts to clear his throat in his room.

He appears in the living room, groggy and disheveled, rubbing his eyes in a way that should be adorable but is, much to Grantaire’s despair, so beautiful it’s uncanny, and fuck if he has to take one shower too many in the near future, mainly because Enjolras is so flushed up and his lips swollen and red, sick (quite _literally)_ as that may sound.

Théroigne jumps off his lap to greet Enjolras, wagging her tail, but he looks way too tired to play with her.  He doesn’t look entirely too satisfied from the whole situation, sniffling furiously through his clogged up nose as he makes his way to the toilet. Grantaire eyes him cautiously through the corridor. “Need any help?” he calls amusedly.

“Fuck you!” comes Enjolras’ cranky, muffled voice. The bathroom door opens. “I think I should take a shower.” His eyes are red rimmed and his skin pallid. Before Grantaire is able to form an eloquent reply, his knees wobble and has to rest against the doorframe. “Or maybe I shouldn’t.”

Grantaire stands up, Théroigne stepping on his way, leading him to the couch. “Here, suit yourself,” he turns on the TV and offers him a tissue, pressing his hand on his forehead and flinching at the temperature, before stepping up and padding to the kitchen to give him some privacy while he blows his nose with the most obnoxious sounds. “Name your poison,” he calls, peering through the kitchen cupboards once again. “Tylenol or aspirin?”

“ _Jmen fous_!” Enjolras growls in between his dry coughs. He takes what Grantaire brings him, grimacing in the most spoilt, childish way possible.

“Cheers,” Grantaire lifts his coffee mug.

Enjolras’ already glowing eyes light up with hope. “Is there some of it for me?”

“Sorry, doctor’s orders say you can only have tea.”

“Who’s the doctor?”

“Judging by Combeferre’s absence…” Grantaire theatrically looks around, “and the rebellious state of Théry’s youth that prevents her from getting accepted in medical school… me!”

“You’re a dick!” Enjolras groans.

Grantaire clicks his tongue. “Not very punk rock of you.” His attention turns to the TV, stirred by a very familiar tune. “Mary Poppins? I mean, Julie Andrews is The Queen, but you must be really sick to watch animated dancing penguins and British middle aged men cackling on the ceiling.”

“I like it!” the blonde pouts defensively, leaning lower to grab Théroigne from her armpits and lift her on his lap where she squirms for a while before curling up comfortably and starting to lick his hands.

“Well then,” Grantaire eyes them both with slightly amused, raised eyebrows. “You really must be feverish to say that, the meds can’t have possibly kicked in yet to say they’ve made you high. Let me,” Enjolras doesn’t oblige and turn around, but nevertheless frowns and lets Grantaire touch his forehead. “Or is it because of the suffragettes?”

“My dad likes that movie too, but I don’t think he quite gets it. He always used to laugh at the lady who doesn’t stay at home to look after her children as if she’s a joke.”

“Hate to break it to you,” Grantaire hums, “but she _is_ kind of a joke, considering she steps on the shoulders of the working class to raise her children for her. Isn’t that supposed to be the bourgeois feminism kind that Musichetta always critiques?”

Enjolras sighs wearily. “I suppose you are right.”

“Dear me, you must really be dying!” Grantaire brings a hand to his heart dramatically. “To think the day has come that Apollo has agreed with me!”

Enjolras snorts, not bothering to dignify that with a reply, even though Grantaire can swear he spots a flicker of a smile on his flushed up face. “They also ridicule banks. We hate banks! Banks are the enemy!”

“Hey, it’s okay,” Grantaire mutters, patting Enjolras’ arm comfortingly. “Don’t over excite yourself, we don’t want you to die?”

Enjolras rolls his eyes with a bitter smile shining on his face. “You act like my life is such a big deal to you!”

Grantaire forgets how to breathe. He carefully withdraws his hand awkwardly to his lap. He swallows hard, his eyes sinking and sinking into him, in a way that Enjolras will forever be unaware of. “This world is in dire need of a marble deliverer of liberty,” he half mocks. "You should die heroically, on some barricade, after having legalized teletubby drugs."

Enjolras punches his shoulder playfully. “Screw you.”

“No, screw you!”

Enjolras’ eyes fade to the screen for a while, and suddenly fire up with determination, and Grantaire is scared.

“Now if you’ll excuse me,” he sits up on the couch, “I need to finish my work.”

Before he’s even managed to blink, Théroigne jumps in alarm off of Enjolras’ lap as Grantaire climbs on him, crushing him under his weight.

“What…” Enjolras panics, “what are you doing!”

“I’m holding you down,” Grantaire explains calmly, close enough to feel his hot breath brush upon his face.

“Get the fuck off me!” he shouts, trying to get rid of him, kicking and elbowing the air but with no result. Grantaire rests his back casually against Enjolras’ chest, pushing him back.

“Tell me,” he asks lazily, examining his nails. “How does Combeferre survive?”

“What?” Enjolras gasps in fury.

“What does he do to cope with you and Courfeyrac? He’s so calm all the time…”

“It’s because he does yoga,” Enjolras grunts, pushing Grantaire in vain, suddenly realizing the offence in the question. “Wait, what do you mean!” he growls, giving Grantaire’s thigh small, arrhythmical punches. “Get off me, that’s against my consent...!”

“Promise to stay put if I get up?”

“Ugh… promise!”

“What do you entitle me to do if you disobey?”

“That’s blackmail…!” Enjolras deflates in defeat underneath Grantaire. “Fine. I promise to have that nasty cough syrup.”

“That’s a good boy,” Grantaire slides off next to him on the couch. "By the way, still having that syrup."

“You’re horrible,” he blows his nose. “You're horrible and I fucking hate you. Also I'm not.”

“You are. And it’s okay,” Grantaire croons, turning to the screen where Chim-chimney is playing. “I’ll learn to live with it.”

“Terrific,” he coughs sarcastically, “well done. It’s okay to fuck up my entire academic career.”

Grantaire’s stomach tightens with guilt. “Is it a deadline?”

“Due to Monday.”

He thinks about it for a while. “Do you know what? I can help you with your essay. What is it on?”

“Fucking _Nietzsche_ and his sceptic roots _,_ ” Enjolras groans pitifully, wiping his red nose with remorse.

“I _definitely_ can help you,” Grantaire sits up, almost determinately. “What stage are you on?”

“Reading… keeping notes.”

Grantaire stands up. “Okay, we can take this easy, okay? We’ll refine your arguments. Trust me with underlining with a fancy pink marker?” _Of course you aren’t._

Enjolras considers this. “Of course I do,” he cracks a faint smile. “Will you… will you really help me?”

“Let’s face it, you’ve always needed me,” Grantaire rolls his eyes. “No more laptop for today, fuck technology, let’s return to our primitive Rousseauean roots!” he jokes, receiving a light punch on his arm before standing up with the dog following suit, making a stop at her water bowl and returning to curl between them on the couch, surrounded by notes, books, and neon markers.

It works surprisingly well until Let’s Go Fly a Kite and Enjolras’ eyelids start drooping. It almost makes Grantaire sad, seeing him bundle up in his misery under several layers of blankets and pillows. Théroigne is currently sitting on Grantaire’s lap, licking her ass. He stares at her blankly. “You know,” he mutters after she cuddles up again between them, “dogs are supposed to chase squirrels, run free, and shit… Is all she does all day sitting on people’s laps? Does she think she’s a cat?”

“What if she likes it?” Enjolras protests. “You can’t let society dictate her life choices!”

Grantaire can’t have another discussion of a similar nature, so he withdraws at the kitchen while Enjolras zaps furiously through TV channels, to make some tea.

The first hot sip throws Enjolras into a coughing fit. Grantaire briefly wonders if he’s too useless to even make a proper cup of tea. This time his hand is on Enjolras’ back, rubbing comforting circles without second thoughts. Théroigne looks up to him and licks his neck.

“Joly will kill us both if you get pneumonia, you know that, right?” Grantaire mutters tenderly. “It’ll  be so ironic to die a martyr after all.” Seeing Enjolras’ miserable expression, he heaves a sigh. “I guess doctors are out of the question, uh?” He receives nothing but a menacing look. “Power relations, oppressive medical authority, and all that?”

“No,” Enjolras grunts, stifling another cough in his sleeve. “I just don’t like doctors, okay?”

Grantaire raises an eyebrow. “So you don’t like Combeferre?”

“Let’s keep Comneferre out of this, okay?”

“Sorry, didn’t know we shouldn’t bring your super husband into the conversation,” he grins bitterly.

“He’s _not,_ ” Enjolras croaks, “my super husband, so stop saying that!”

“Queerplatonic life partner, then,” Grantaire says smugly. “By the way, he knows.”

“Who knows?” Enjolras sits up in alarm, accidentally waking Théroigne who’s been sleeping in the way that puppies sleep and makes angels sing precious lullabies. She looks even more adorable, awake and disoriented, Grantaire muses, or maybe he just wants to avoid Enjolras’ eye.

“Combeferre. He texted me. He knows when something’s wrong without even having talked to you. Shouldn’t surprise me, I guess…”

“I don’t want him to worry him for no reason,” Enjolras says hoarsely.

“It’s okay, he won’t.”

“’Course,” his voice is dazed again, almost soft. His temperature must be spiking up. “He trusts you.”

Grantaire’s chuckle sounds wrong. “Trust _me?_ With your health? Why should he?”

“Why shouldn’t he?”

His heart skips a beat as he turns to face him. Enjolras is looking at him surely despite his weariness, faith glowing genuinely in his eyes. “Why me?” Grantaire hears his own strangled voice, phrasing in two words all the absurd concerns that have been swirling in his mind all day. “Why did you call me to come? I thought…” his throat feels tightened, it’s hard to talk. “I thought I’d never be among your first choices.”

Enjolras shrugs his shoulders, together with the whole mountain of covers. “Théroigne likes you,” he answers simply, as if it’s the most normal, obvious thing to say. “She likes Courfeyrac and Jehan too, but I think…” Enjolras seems to be blushing like a schoolboy, but then again he’s already flushed so Grantaire shouldn’t be feeling all jumpy inside. “I think she has feelings for you.”

He turns to look at him absurdly, then to the oblivious, sleeping puppy, and to Enjolras again. “Your dog,” Grantaire repeats incredulously. “She has feelings for me. Apollo, do you understand what you’re saying, or are you just _real fucking_ feverish?”

“I, uh…” Grantaire clears his throat. “I should go get us some food.”

Enjolras tugs on his sleeve. “No, stay here. We can order later.”

He bites his lips hesitantly. “You sure?”

“You can stay here to walk her tonight, if you want of course,” he murmurs, raising his eyes. “Until tomorrow, when Courfeyrac will visit.”

Grantaire lets a smile, stroking Théroigne’s fur. “If she wants me to…”

“She does.” Enjolras peeks his hand from under the duvet, finding Grantaire’s. Their knuckles brush together. Grantaire’s heart is doing a wild dance. “You are her first choice.”

“Please, let me help you, Enjolras,” he hears his own voice coming out hoarse. “It’s the meds. You don’t know what you’re saying.”

“Will you read to me?”

It takes a while for Grantaire to snap back into reality, looking around for the book he’d left earlier. “What, uh – The Night Circus?”

“That,” Enjolras hums, getting more comfortable with his arm around his dog. “Whatever. Just… read to me.”

Grantaire takes the book on his lap with no further questions. He’s holding his breath, focusing on the steady pace of Enjolras’ own. Slowly, he raises his eyes. Maybe _he’s_ the delirious one. And it’s beautiful. His fingers are slightly shaky as they trace circles on the warm skin of Enjolras’ hand, savoring the privilege of every inch in an almost experimental manner.

“You’re warm…” Enjolras murmurs.

Grantaire chuckles shakily. “Speaks the human furnace.”

“I mean…” Enjolras coughs tiredly. “I’m not as warm as you. You should – put yourself around me. You should share…”

“Good…” Grantaire nods, his mouth dry, his heart trying to hammer its way out of his ribs. “Sharing is good, and all – so socialist of us… Come here, you dork!”

He puts his arms around Enjolras’ slumped figure, carefully as if he’s about to break, and Enjolras curls up comfortably against him, radiating warmth and smelling of tea and cinnamon and dogs and sleep. Théroigne readjusts herself on their laps, taking up with her peaceful snoring and occasionally scratching the air during a dream.

“You know she’ll soon be too huge to cuddle, right?” he hears himself muttering.

“’Sokay,” Enjolras hums dreamily, “you can come and cuddle, when you want…”

“It’s okay, Enjolras,” Grantaire pats his hand breathlessly. “You’re just delirious.”

“It was nice…” the man murmurs sleepily, resting his head on Grantaire’s shoulder. “What you did with your hand.”

Grantaire’s fingers trail featherweight circles on Enjolras’ wrist. “You mean… that?”

“Yeah,” Enjolras sighs, stifling a small cough. “Think you can do it again?”

Grantaire buries his face in the mop of Enjolras’ hair, inhaling his rich scent, a breath away from kissing his head. Théroigne makes an adorable sound and stretches her paws before resting her head on Grantaire’s knee.  His legs tangle with Enjolras’, their fingers waltzing around a kiss. He holds his breath. Enjolras smiles against his shoulder.

“We’ve got all night.”


End file.
